


love is a ruthless game (unless you play it good and right)

by TessTheDreamer, tigerlilycorinne



Series: AUgust 2020 Short Fic [31]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Monster Hunters, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War, Rated Teen Just Incase, Supernatural Illnesses, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:20:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26222536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TessTheDreamer/pseuds/TessTheDreamer, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigerlilycorinne/pseuds/tigerlilycorinne
Summary: “What do you think you’re going to do after this?” Potter still wasn’t looking at him.“I don’t know,” Draco answered dishonestly. He knew where he would end up after they finished their last job, after they killed the last of the Eaten, and he wasn’t sure what Potter’s reaction to it would be. He hoped Harry would hate it, he worried that Harry wouldn’t care. “What about you? Auror training?”He laughed. “Maybe. I don’t know. I think I’m tired of fighting. Maybe I’ll settle down. A peaceful life would be nice.”That was the only thing they could agree on.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: AUgust 2020 Short Fic [31]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1856617
Comments: 5
Kudos: 147
Collections: AUgust 2020





	love is a ruthless game (unless you play it good and right)

**Author's Note:**

> Draco by FangirlOfLetters, Harry by tigerlilycorinne. 6.6k, going out with a bang!   
> Title from Taylor Swift's "State of Grace".

**love is a ruthless game (unless you play it good and right)**

**DRACO**

Draco Malfoy was going to die soon. 

It wasn’t like this was news to him. He knew he was going to die for about a year now, but this was different. He could feel it, in how his left arm throbbed and how walking was getting steadily harder. He could feel it in his blood and in his bones.

He didn’t have much time left. 

Still, he ignored it and pushed forward. He had monsters to kill. 

Well, not exactly. _They_ had monsters to kill. 

“When did you have the time to transfigure yourself into a snail, Malfoy?” Potter quipped, with no bite behind it. “Keep up.” 

“Excuse me, I am ill,” he said. “I’ll be as slow as I like, thanks.” 

Harry didn’t laugh, but Draco could tell he was amused. 

If only Draco’s sixteen-year-old self could see him now. On the way to kill the Eaten with Harry bloody Potter, working for the Ministry with him. He could barely recognize his life. 

“Who are we hunting down again?” Potter asked.

He rolled his eyes. “For the last time, I don’t know. My inner compass doesn’t tell me who we’re going after. Do you know who’s left?” 

Potter shook his head, his inky black hair shaking as he moved. Draco felt a quick stab of jealousy (and something more, something he shouldn’t want), and looked away from the other man. 

Potter looked good. He had always looked good really, even at eleven, which he thought was particularly unfair, but that wasn’t what he was focusing on. He looked healthy, healthy and young, every inch of the nineteen-year-old he was. His hair was black and thick, his eyes the emerald green of Draco’s house colours. He still had a healthy flush in his cheeks.

Harry Potter was beautiful. It was a fact, one Draco wished he could stay more objective on. 

They were the same age, but Draco looked older. Last time he looked in a mirror– he loathed to admit he had begun looking in them less– his hair had hung limply on his head, his eyes were dull, the flush in his cheeks looked feverish instead of natural. His skin, an unhealthy pale, stretched strangely over his bones. And that wasn’t even mentioning his arm, or his veins. 

And he didn’t have anyone else to blame but himself for it. 

When Voldemort died, everyone thought the War was over. They celebrated, laughed and danced, thanking Harry Potter for saving the Wizarding World. He had gotten ready for trial. 

That was before the ex-Death Eaters started turning into monsters. 

They had been monsters before, in heart and soul and mind, but now their bodies had transformed into something monstrous as well. It was the Dark Marks that did it, that changed them into creatures wizards called the Eaten. 

The theory was that Voldemort’s broken soul entered their bodies through the marks, corrupting them. The Eaten’s spells were stronger, their veins black as night. They could blend in with Muggles, which was the most dangerous thing about them. 

One day, Draco would become one of those. He had fought it for a year, but there was no cure, and that day grew closer by the second. The day he would turn into a monster. 

He didn’t plan to make it to that day. 

The only useful thing about his condition was that the Dark Mark could be used as a compass or a map, internally pulling him towards people with the same mark. The Ministry had put it to good use. 

“What do you think you’re going to do after this?” The question was unexpected, and he almost stumbled over a tree root. 

Potter still wasn’t looking at him, but there was no one else who he could have asked that question too. 

They still didn’t like each other, or rather Potter didn’t like him, but there was a certain level of trust built up by being brothers in arms for a year. They had bonded in a very strange way, over days of walking (because Draco became too weak for Apparition) and binding each other’s wounds. That was the only reason he was asking. Or maybe he was trying to be nice. 

No. He doubted that. 

“I don’t know,” Draco answered dishonestly. He knew where he would end up after they finished their last job, after they killed the last of the Eaten, and he wasn’t sure what Potter’s reaction to it would be. He hoped Harry would hate it, he worried that Harry wouldn’t care. “What about you? Auror training?”

He laughed, a quick sound that was over before it even started. It was still a beautiful sound. “Maybe. I don’t know. I think I’m tired of fighting. Maybe I’ll settle down.” 

“You? Settle down? At nineteen?”

“Maybe. A peaceful life would be nice.” 

That was the only thing they could agree on.

His legs ached as he walked, and Draco mentally prepared himself for the battle that would ensue when they found the Eaten. It would tire his already exhausted body out. It took a lot out of him to keep himself from turning into one of the Eaten, and he had gotten more and more ill over the last few months. It was impressive that he could still walk. “Who would you even settle down with? You broke up with Weasley.” 

Potter shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe alone. To take some time for myself.” 

If anyone deserved time for himself, it was Harry Potter.

“Why are you telling me this?” Draco asked. He wasn’t sure why he was asking. Maybe it was because it was their last job together, and he was feeling nostalgic. Maybe he was curious. 

Maybe he was hoping for a miracle. 

“We’ve spent a lot of time together over the past year, Malfoy,” he said. 

“I noticed.” 

“Sod off. Just . . . I don’t know. We’ve gotten closer. And after this, we might never see each other again. I feel like we should enjoy the time we have left.” 

“You’re making it seem like we’re going to die or something,” he said. If Draco had his way, one of them would. 

“Well, we might,” Potter joked, before getting serious again. “I just don’t want to end this without knowing anything about you. It feels wrong.”

“I thought you wouldn’t want to know anything about me,” Draco blurted out. Fuck. Curse him and his big mouth and his obsession with Harry Potter.

Potter looked adorably confused, like he couldn’t fathom why he could ever think that way. “What d’you mean?”

“It’s pretty obvious, don’t you think?” He pointed at him. “You’re Harry Potter, the Chosen One, the Vanquisher of Voldemort.” He pointed at himself. “And I’m Draco Malfoy, Death Eater. Somewhere in there, the Ministry might send you after me.” 

His perfect mouth dropped open at Draco’s words. “Do you seriously think I care about that?” Potter demanded. 

Draco blinked. “W-What?” 

“I know what you did in your past,” he said. “I happened to be there. But you changed, and you’re working with the Ministry to hunt down your former friends. And everyone deserves a second chance. Even you, Malfoy.”

No. He couldn’t mean that. 

Could he?

If anyone was kind enough to give him a second chance, it was Potter. 

“Besides, we’ll find a cure.” He sounded so determined it hurt to hear.

There was only one thing that might be able to cure him. True love. The knowledge that your true love loved you. 

Still, that was a myth. A story among purebloods. Nothing real or concrete, nothing that could actually save him. 

That didn’t stop Draco from wishing. Wishing that a certain green-eyed boy was his true love, wishing that he could save him like he had saved everyone else. 

Suddenly, he felt a pang in his Dark Mark. It was something he had felt several times before, but he never got used to it, especially as his condition worsened. Draco stopped in his tracks. 

“Potter,” he said. “We’re here.” 

They had arrived at a lake in the middle of the forest, and they were standing on a very small cliff above it. The two of them ducked behind trees, their movements smooth and practised, and he leaned against it. If there was anything he was proud of these days, it was how synchronized he and Potter had gotten before and in battle.

Draco glanced out from behind the tree. The Eaten were standing on the shore of the lake, near what looked like the makings of a bonfire. They looked Muggle, looked human, until you looked closer. At their swollen black veins, at their too-large teeth, at the crazed, hateful look in their eyes.

He shuddered. He didn’t want to be like that, look like that. Not ever. That was why he was going to kill himself after the assignment. If he didn’t do it, the Ministry would, and he wanted to go out with as much dignity as he had left. 

Draco recognized the two as Dolohov and Yates, and he scowled. Of course they would be the last ones. They had been very loyal followers of Voldemort. 

Then his eyes darted to the right, and he froze. 

Next to them was a Muggle girl. 

She was even younger than he was. They had put the Body-Bind curse on her, and she looked bloody terrified. 

What were they doing with her? 

He looked over at Potter, who looked like he had just noticed her too. He put his hand up, their sign for wait, and pointed at the Eaten.

Draco looked a little closer and noticed that they both had their wands out. 

“Wait for them to put them down, and then we’ll attack,” Potter whispered. “Unless something happens before that. You go around, so we can ambush them on both sides.” 

He nodded. It was a good plan, even better considering he wouldn’t have to leap down from somewhere to fight. Draco wasn’t sure he could do that anymore. 

He turned to leave, but a hand on his arm stopped him. Potter had darted behind his tree to stop him. Of course he did. 

“What?” he asked. 

“I was thinking about . . . becoming the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher,” Potter said slowly, like he was testing the waters by saying the words. “After this.” 

Huh. Potter as a teacher.

“That’s a good idea,” he said, before turning to go. “You’d be good at it.” 

Draco could understand why he said that now. Just in case he died, his dream wouldn’t go down with him. 

He crept through the trees, trying not to make any noise, before he was directly behind the two Eaten. They were building the bonfire, laughing and crowing in a way that was definitely not human. 

“We’re the last ones,” the thing that used to be Dolohov said. “We might as well go out with a bang!” 

Yates laughed, a chilling sound. “Do you think the Dark Lord would have wanted us to do this?”

“Well, the Dark Lord is in us now. So I think so. And why wouldn’t he want us to feast on some Muggle girl’s flesh? We’re superior to them.” 

Draco almost dropped his wand. 

They were going to eat her. 

_They were going to eat her._

That was why they were making the bonfire. Because they planned to eat the Muggle girl. 

He itched to run out of the shadows, to kill the two monsters. But Potter hadn’t done anything, and if he could control himself, Draco could too. 

He waited behind the tree anxiously as the two Eaten talked about what they would do to her, what parts they would eat, how much they worshipped Voldemort. His empty stomach rolled. How could he have ever thought they were right? How could he have ever befriended them?

He wasn’t going to become one of them. He wasn’t.

Finally, after what felt like hours, they spelled the Muggle girl free. They dropped their wands at the same time. 

Draco dove out from behind the tree at the same time as Potter, and they both flung stunning spells, hitting the Eaten square in the chest. They screamed in pain, high-pitched and _wrong_. 

“Get out of here!” Potter shouted at the girl. She nodded and ran off, disappearing. 

And then the duel began. 

Duelling the Eaten wasn’t like duelling regular wizards and witches. They were faster, stronger. They showed no mercy. 

But he had adapted, and Potter was fast and strong. He was the strongest person Draco knew. So they had survived until now. 

He was going against Dolohov, and Potter was going against Yates. 

“ _Expelliarmus,_ ” Draco yelled. “ _Stupefy! Bombarda! Confringo!_ ” The bolts of light shot out of his wand, a few hitting the Eaten, but not doing much damage. 

Dolohov cackled. “Draco Malfoy. I heard you betrayed us. I should have known you were nothing more than a snivelling brat!”

He glared, focusing on duelling. The Eaten always talked to him, either trying to convince him to betray the Ministry or to yell at him. He was getting pretty good at tuning them out by now. 

“You’re one of us,” he growled, sounding angry and ridiculously happy at the same time. It reminded him a bit of his aunt. “Someday, you will look just like me!” 

“No,” Draco said, shooting off another stunner. Dolohov danced out of the way. “I won’t.” 

“What, do you think that there will be a cure? That you won’t be the last Death Eater, the last Eaten?” He flung a Cruciatus Curse that he barely missed. “The only cure is something that you’ll never have! No one could ever love you, Draco Malfoy! No one!” 

_I know._

The thought of true love, something the other Eaten had never taunted him with, slowed him down. It was small, by a fraction, but it obviously meant something. 

“ _Stupefy!_ ” Dolohov yelled, grinning like a madman, showing those unnatural teeth. 

Draco wasn’t fast enough to dodge it. 

The spell hit him straight in the chest, and a strangled noise fell from his lips. It blasted him backwards, and he hit a tree with a _thunk_. He crumpled to the forest floor. 

Pain filled his body; black filled his vision as his eyes fluttered shut. 

He still needed to fight. 

But he had been fighting for so long, and Draco couldn’t fight anymore.

He smiled a little. _Finally._ At least now, he’d never become one of the Eaten. 

The last thing he heard before succumbing to the darkness was someone screaming his name. 

**HARRY**

It seemed to happen in slow motion and inconceivably quickly all at once– Harry watched Malfoy fall with his heart in his throat for what seemed like minutes– and yet Malfoy fell so quickly Harry couldn’t have moved by the time Malfoy hit the ground, clearly unconscious. 

Malfoy’s name ripped out of Harry like a force of nature crashing through his entire body.

Malfoy’s head hit the tree with such impact that Harry felt numb with fear; it was a kind of fear he hadn’t felt since the Battle of Hogwarts– a cold-clutching, mind-numbing terror that someone might be– 

Might be–

He couldn’t be, not when that Eaten had just mentioned a cure– he couldn’t be–

A wave of magic rose to his skin, the sheer feel of its power drowning out the unwanted word and rushing through him so forcefully it hurt.

“ _Stupefy_ ,” he shouted, almost without thinking, lashing out with his wand every which way towards the Eaten still standing, but they ducked, laughing loudly.

Laughing, after they’d hit Malfoy, possibly fatally. The spell didn’t seem nearly enough for the boiling in Harry’s blood. 

He tried again, channelling every ounce of magic pushing at his skin. “ _Reducto!”_

That one felt better, the desperation in his body unleashed in a wave of magic. 

It spread as he’d never seen a curse do, like a shock wave, and the last of the Eaten exploded into ash from his spell with a horrific scream. Black hovered in the air for a moment, as if the piece of Voldemort’s soul that had been preserved in that once-man’s Dark Mark was searching for a new place to go before fading into nothing.

Harry stood there, his chest heaving, staring at the blank, semi-ashen ground on which the last of the Voldemort corrupted Eaten had stood moments before. 

_Draco._

His breathing scratched raggedly in his throat as he ran to Malfoy’s side– Malfoy’s hair was streaked with black– dirt or ash Harry couldn’t tell– and blood trickled from a cut on the side of his head, staining his blond hair. Harry’s hands flew to the source of the blood automatically; it seemed shallow, and an irrationally strong wave of relief threatened to make him go boneless. 

Hard, sharp rocks dug painfully into Harry’s knees as he knelt by Malfoy, dry leaves snapping under him as if to remind him of the fragility of life, his heart racing as he held a hand under Malfoy’s nose and pressed two fingers roughly to the juncture of Malfoy’s neck.

He was breathing.

He had a heartbeat.

He was still _alive_ , at least for the moment. 

“Oh thank _Merlin_ , Draco,” he heard himself whisper, dull with relief. “Oh, Merlin.” He whispered a thank you to anyone who was listening, to anything, for saving this beautiful, inconceivably strong boy this one time. 

He couldn’t Apparate with Malfoy this weak, but he still had the shrunken wizarding tent they’d been using for months as they tracked the Eaten down. 

He looked around– this was hardly the place to put up a tent, but he’d have to find a place close by, so he could Levitate Malfoy that far, or carry him, if he could find a place really close. It felt safer to carry Malfoy, simply because of the control of it, because of the palpable weight of Malfoy’s solid body in Harry’s arms, a reminder that the boy Harry couldn’t help but ache for was not yet lost.

“I’m going to put up the tent and fix you up.” He didn’t know why he felt compelled to talk to unconscious Malfoy, but it gave him clarity of mind over the swirling relief that Malfoy wasn’t dead and the everpresent terror that he might, at any moment, die or cross the point of no return. 

The black veins up his arms were climbing far higher, Harry knew, like twisting, cruel vines against Malfoy’s skin, the contrast even stronger than usual because of Malfoy’s ever-deteriorating health, and his feverish skin. Harry looked at him now and thought he looked nearly transparent, the blue veins up the underside of his jaw a vivid cry of fragility.

It took barely a moment to set the tent, scooping Malfoy up in his arms and carrying him in. His heart cracked as he felt the cold of Malfoy’s skin, the light weight of his body, so frail and weak, fighting so desperately against the curse of a soul not his, against a kind of dark magic they’d never seen before– not even Harry, though he’d lived with Voldemort’s soul in him for his entire life up until a year ago that seemed a lifetime away. 

“ _Rennervate,”_ he whispered, his voice shaking as hard as his wand-hand, gripping his wand tight and pointing it at the pale boy on the cot as he watched Malfoy’s chest rise and fall shallowly. “Please wake up, Draco, please.” 

He gripped Malfoy’s hand, as if the tighter he held it, the more likely it would be that Malfoy might wake up. Who would’ve guessed, he thought, almost hysterically, that he’d be crazy in love with a Death Eater, with _Draco Malfoy?_ That he could fall in love so quickly for someone he had detested for so long. 

Or that Draco Malfoy could change so quickly, so _decisively_ that he could fight Voldemort’s soul for nearly a year after Voldemort’s death? It almost felt unreal, except that everything had the sharp, cruel edge of reality– his harsh breaths in the still air, Draco’s heartbeat at the pulse point on his wrist, the smell of blood and smoke and the suffocating smell of dark magic hanging around them both.

Malfoy stirred. 

Harry’s heart leapt in his chest, soaring, and Malfoy– 

Malfoy’s eyes opened, slowly, the swirling, magnetic grey that Harry saw in his dreams. His hand fluttered weakly in Harry’s. 

“Hi,” Harry whispered, his chest tight, “You’re okay. You’re safe, I’ve got you.” He ran a hand through Malfoy’s hair, pushing it off his forehead, suppressing the urge to kiss him there, lightly.

A disturbing look crossed Malfoy’s face, a strange hybrid of disappointment and horror. “I’m alive?” He said this so faintly, Harry had to strain to hear it. “I was hoping…”

Harry’s heart ached, his breathing suddenly coming short. “Malfoy– can I give you one of your potions? I’m going to give you one of your potions, alright?” 

Malfoy hummed a reluctant consent.

Malfoy always carried around a small pouch with many more potions than should fit in it, and he was insufferably proud of the charmwork he’d put into the bag, as well as the potions, which he’d invented himself to replenish his energy. They’d become increasingly useful over the past few months, when he began to get worse and worse.

And he always kept it in his pockets. 

Harry felt rather as if he was… well… _getting handsy_ , so to speak, as he fumbled around in Malfoy’s robes, trying to locate the correct pocket. 

“Left pocket,” Malfoy murmured faintly, his fingers twitching as if he was itching to correct Harry, or slap his hands away and do it himself. Harry never thought he’d see the day where he wished Malfoy would.

Harry located the little bag, pulling open the drawstring loop and then dumping the entire contents onto the floor, a ticking clock pounding in his chest as Malfoy’s eyes fluttered shut again. It turned out to be a veritable _mountain_ of bottled potions, many of them glowing in the dim magical lighting of their tent, which had a nice, small chandelier, courtesy of Malfoy’s high wizarding-tent standards.

He felt irrationally relieved when Malfoy’s shaky voice muttered, “Don’t dump the whole thing, you idiot, just find the blue.”

“Sparkly?” Harry found a blue one pretty easily– there were a lot of those ones, glowing, shimmering bottled liquid that moved slowly and sluggishly in the bottle when he shook it, a viscous consistency that made it cling to the sides of the glass. “Glowy– is it this one– Draco _please_ , open your eyes–” 

The longer Malfoy was weak like this, the farther the black veins would climb in the absence of Malfoy’s capacity to resist. Malfoy had explained it many times. 

“There’s only one type of blue potion; is it blue or not?”

Harry’s heart beat wildly in his chest and he uncorked the container. “Okay, just– can you open your mouth?”

“Maybe if you ask nicely.” 

Malfoy didn’t seem worried about himself, and that alone was worrying enough to nearly break Harry in itself, but Malfoy opened his mouth, and Harry, with a shaking hand, poured the syrupy blue liquid into Malfoy’s mouth, holding the cold bottle steady with both hands. 

“Thank you,” he found himself whispering, which was frankly ridiculous, because it was Malfoy at risk, after all. And yet that wasn’t quite true either, because if Malfoy didn’t pull through, Harry was sure he couldn’t either. He didn’t want to imagine a world without Malfoy in it.

He watched Malfoy’s throat work to swallow, almost having a heart attack when Malfoy’s throat bobbed twice in quick succession and Malfoy coughed.

“Oh my god,” he gasped, reaching for Malfoy, who he’d already sat up, almost pounding on his back.

Malfoy’s eyes opened, sharper and brighter this time, his breathing coming easier. “Haha.”

Harry released a sharp breath. “That’s not funny.” It wasn’t, but he was smiling anyway– Malfoy looked better already, and his voice was strong now, steady.

“No,” Malfoy said, sitting straighter and reaching for the buttons on his shirt, “but the look on your face was.” 

Malfoy yanked open his shirt with hurried fingers.

Harry opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. It didn’t matter, because Malfoy wasn’t waiting on him for one anyway, not anymore– they were both looking at Malfoy’s chest, pale, skinny enough that you could count his ribs because these days he sometimes had trouble keeping his food down.

And lined, _almost_ to his heart, with black, black veins. 

Last time Harry had seen it, the veins went up Malfoy’s left arm, nearly to his shoulder, and that had been over the course of a whole year…

“It must’ve been the Stunner,” he whispered, his throat tight, his chest empty and hollow. He couldn’t breathe. “The Eaten are _soaked_ in Dark Magic– and it hit you…” He trailed off, reaching out to touch Malfoy’s chest without thinking, his fingertips right where the veins ended, hardly an inch from Malfoy’s heartbeat.

“That checks out.” Malfoy laughed, shaky and humorlessly. Almost resigned. He sat up straighter, scooting a little so Harry could join him on the cot, facing him. His black veined chest rose and fell, his mouth a tight line. 

“Harry,” Malfoy whispered.

Harry’s heart gave a jolt. Malfoy never called him Harry, not unless he was saying ‘ _Harry Potter_ ’ usually with no small amount of mockery. The way he said it now…

Something was very wrong.

“Harry,” Malfoy said again, urgently, and Harry tore his eyes from Malfoy’s chest to look up at Malfoy. Malfoy’s eyes were dark grey, catching in the sharp tent light, a desperation in them that Harry had never seen before.

“Draco.” Harry met his eyes and held them, knowing, somehow, that whatever it was Malfoy wanted to say was infinitely important.

Malfoy swallowed hard and reached into his pocket, pulling out his wand. He dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor with a clatter that was startlingly loud in the silence of their tent.

Black, cold, roiling dread rushed through Harry like a whip-quick rope, tightening around him like a noose.

He almost wasn’t surprised when Malfoy said, “I want you to kill me.”

“No,” he said. He was surprised his voice didn’t crack. His heart certainly was– cracking and falling apart and breaking him inside and out.

“Harry,” Malfoy’s voice broke, “Please. I don’t want to become _this_.” He pulled open his shirt further, off of his shoulders, so it slipped off of his arms and pooled around his waist, showing the terrible, winding black veins all the way up left arm, spilling like spiderwebs over his shoulder, reaching their long, dark fingers towards his heart. It was so terribly, wrongly _beautiful_ , like the sweeping grace of an enemy’s sword. 

Harry made a sound in his throat as Malfoy traced his Dark Mark with shaking fingers. “You won’t.”

“Yes I _will,_ ” Malfoy hissed, the corners of his eyes sparkling with tears. “You know I will, and you’ll have to put me out too. I don’t want that for me. I want to go out on my own terms, do you understand?”

He reached for Harry, his hands clutching– frail, bony, and tight as a noose– at Harry’s own. “Tell me you understand.” 

Of course Harry understood. It was what Dumbledore had said to him all those years ago– the difference between being forced to fight someone and walking in there willingly with your head held high, the difference between letting something take you somewhere and choosing to go there yourself.

The control, the clarity.

The closure.

But– _the cure._ The Eaten had said something about a cure. Harry remembered, suddenly, and the memory pierced through his thoughts, a ray of light straight to his heart.

“He said there was a cure. Dolohov, he mentioned–” He faltered when Malfoy shut his eyes, a pained look crossing his face, something so aching that Harry’s heart cried out in harmony. “You know what it is.”

Malfoy shook his head, his hands tightening on Harry’s. “It’s nothing,” he said.

“It could be something,” Harry said desperately, hoping he wasn’t grasping at straws– how could he know if he was grasping at straws if Malfoy wouldn’t tell him what it was? If anything could even offer a _chance_ , it didn’t matter _what_ it was, Harry would try. He _had_ to. “Tell me, please. Does it work?”

“It’s _not_ something,” Malfoy said forcefully, “It’s impossible. It’s one of those crazy cures like eating a dragon heart. It might work, but I can’t actually–”

“Is it eating a dragon heart?” Harry shifted, grasping for his wand. “I’ll kill a dragon, Draco, _I will_.”

“No–” Malfoy looked up at him, his eyes full of torment. “It was just a comparison– will you just kill me?”

“No!”

Malfoy threw his hands up. “ _Why not?”_

“Because I can’t kill you knowing– _knowing_ there’s a cure! I can’t _do_ that!” Harry’s voice broke, and he choked down a rising sob, twisting his hands in his hair.

Malfoy swallowed and looked away.

“Just tell me what it is. And if it’s impossible…” Harry trailed off. He didn’t know what to say– he wouldn’t promise he wouldn’t try, not when if there was even the slightest chance, he knew he’d go for it. Even if there wasn’t the slightest chance, he’d go for it. Draco Malfoy could not die. Harry couldn’t live with it.

Malfoy shifted, the cot creaking warningly under them as Harry leaned forward, hopelessly hopeful and trembling with it.

“It’s…” Malfoy looked at him, and then away again. “It’s True Love.” He opened his mouth to take a shaky breath, staring at his hands as Harry waited, his heartbeat pounding in his throat, hope rising in his chest like the sun. “Love has always been… a counteraction to Dark Magic. The myth– it’s, it’s only a myth– but the myth is that if you know that your True Love loves you… it’s like a panacea. A bezoar stone, but for soul magic.” He laughed mirthlessly. “It’s nothing.”

Harry’s heart ached in his chest, so strong he could barely speak around it. He found Malfoy’s cold hand and held it so tightly he thought he might break it. “It’s not nothing.” He could almost _feel_ the possibility in the still air. “Do you have any idea who your True Love might be?”

Malfoy was silent. He stared at their hands and said nothing, the light catching in his blond hair and the shadow covering his eyes.

“If you don’t, we can…” It _did_ seem a bit hopeless. And it would absolutely, completely break Harry, but if Malfoy would be okay, it would be worth it. If Malfoy could just _live_. “We can go all over the world. Meet as many people as we can, and maybe some girl will catch your eye–”

“I’m gay,” Malfoy said, his voice grating and almost amused, like it was a painful inside joke to himself that Harry had no chance of understanding. 

“Okay,” Harry agreed immediately, feeling extremely selfish for the little spark of happiness this kindled in his heart. How one-track-minded could he be? He had no place thinking about himself right now, not when they were thinking about Malfoy’s _True Love_. “We’ll see if some bloke can catch–”

“I know who my True Love is,” Malfoy cut him off tonelessly. “I love him enough to know.”

Harry stopped short. Malfoy knew? If he knew, everything was suddenly so much easier, so incredibly _possible–_ How could he possibly have thought it impossible? It was so _very_ possible, so possible that Harry could almost ignore the tiny voice in his head telling him he was getting his hopes dangerously high. “Then– then let’s go to him, and he can tell you–”

“No.” Malfoy didn’t even seem affected by this entire conversation, this conversation that could _save_ him, as if he’d already thought this all through and decided it wasn’t worth it. How could it not be worth it? It was his _life_. “Just because he’s my True Love doesn’t mean I’m his. He doesn’t _love_ me.”

He said it like the mere idea of it was as absurd as Voldemort coming back as a Muggle Rights advocate. He said it almost as if he was disgusted by the idea of it being returned, the way he used to scoff at wrong answers in the classroom. _Obviously not, Potter._

Harry knew people didn’t like Malfoy, and for good reason. But anyone who’d seen him for the past year– determined to change, eager to learn, grimly set on ridding the world of the Eaten– Harry knew he was impossible not to fall for. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do.” Malfoy gestured to Harry’s wand pocket. “Just kill me.”

“No!” Harry said frustratedly, “At least tell me who it is and I can help you–”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Malfoy clenched his fists. “Because it _doesn’t matter_!”

“ _Why not?_ ” Harry was standing now. 

“Because they don’t love me!”

“Why can’t you tell me who?”

Malfoy’s eyes flashed. “Because– because it’s _you!_ ”

Harry’s eyes prickled hotly, tears threatening to spill. “Well I’m _sorry_ , okay? I’m sorry I’m _stupid Harry Potter_ and his _stupid_ _scar_ and you don’t trust me, and you _hate_ me, and I’m the last person you want to tell, but I’m all you’ve got right now, okay?” He was crying now, sobbing and yelling and gesturing like a madman. “But I don’t want you to _fucking die_ , Draco.” 

He swiped at his eyes, but the tears kept coming. 

“I don’t want you to die.”

Malfoy watched him cry for a long moment, silent. Harry sat on the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. Nothing but Harry’s gasping sobs sounded through the tent for a long moment.

Malfoy finally cleared his throat, speaking so softly, Harry had to suppress his tears to hear. 

“That’s not what I meant,” Malfoy said quietly. _Not what he…?_ “I meant it’s you. You’re my–” his voice cracked. “You’re not the _reason_ I can’t tell you who. You… you _are_ …”

Harry stilled. 

_Because it’s you._

He wiped his eyes and let his knees drop down, focusing on Draco with his heart completely still in his chest, afraid to feel anything. 

Draco let out a breath and dropped his face into his hands. “Kill me,” he begged lowly.

Harry inched closer. “I don’t understand.” 

Harry thought… Harry thought maybe he _did_ understand. He couldn’t be right. Could he be right?

_It’s nothing._

_It’s impossible._

_I know who my True Love is. I love him enough to know._

_He doesn’t_ love _me._

“Draco.” He reached for Draco’s hand, pulling it away from Draco’s face. He thought his heart might burst out of his chest, it was so big. “I do. Merlin, I do. I love you–” saying the words themselves left him breathless and strange-feeling inside. He said it again. “I love you.”

Draco’s eyes opened, tormented reproach in his eyes. “Not funny.”

Harry’s heart ached. “I’m not trying to be. I’m not joking, Draco, _I love you_.” 

He could see Draco trembling, could feel Draco’s fingers tighten back when Harry squeezed his hand, his wide eyes, the wild, reluctant spark of hope in his grey eyes. Harry’s heart was on fire.

“You’re clever,” he murmured, bringing Draco’s hand to his lips. He kissed Draco’s knuckles, the black-lined veins trailing down his fingers. “You’re funny, caring. You’re so determined to change, and you’ve changed so much, you’ve survived a year without becoming one of the Eaten. You’re so, so strong.”

Slowly, he leaned forward and kissed Draco’s chest, right over his heart. Draco leaned back against the wall, his other hand moving to press lightly against Harry’s back, pulling him towards him almost mindlessly. 

“I love you,” Harry whispered against Draco’s heart. He could feel Draco’s heart beating out of his chest, wild and fast. He could see the hope filling Draco’s grey eyes, Draco’s lips parting, his eyes locked on Harry as if he couldn’t look away.

Harry smiled, winding his arms around Draco’s waist and rising up to pull Draco in, holding him close. He could feel Draco relaxing into him, their chests pressing together, Draco’s arms slowly moving to hold him back. 

Holding Draco felt like home. 

“How could you ever think it was impossible?” He could see the black veins creeping away from Draco’s heart on Draco’s back, fading away. Rolling back, receding as if retreating from a force infinitely more powerful. Love. “Of course I love you. How could I not?”

He could feel Draco breath against him, the warmth of his breath on Harry’s neck, the rise of his chest pushing against Harry’s own. 

“We’ve covered this, Potter,” Draco said, his voice still shaking. “Chosen One, Death Eater.” He laughed, a light, incredulous sort of laughter. “Besides, I look like shit right now.”

Harry drew back and looked at him– his pale chest, now with normal coloured veins, unhealthily thin; his scraggly blond hair and red-rimmed grey eyes, the tired, jerky way he moved to sit back against the wall. His wrist had faded.

“You’re not a Death Eater anymore. You haven’t been since you decided not to be.” He kissed Draco’s blank wrist. “And you’re always beautiful.”

Draco flushed and smiled, cradling one of Harry’s hands and looking down at it again. Harry flipped him the bird and Draco snickered. Harry’s heart fluttered– there it was, that smile.

Draco’s smile softened. “I… er.” He closed his eyes, his blond lashes fanning against his cheeks. “I feel… that way about you too. And the other thing you said. That too.” 

Harry didn’t have to ask which other thing. _I love you_. 

“I know. You said.”

Draco flushed again. “But you weren’t supposed to find out I was talking about you.” He flicked his eyes up to meet Harry’s, pulling gently on Harry’s hand until Harry took the hint and leaned in closer, the cot creaking as Draco turned sideways, laying back and drawing Harry down with him, a shy smile on his lips. “I never thought…” His gaze dipped down to Harry’s lips.

“I did tell you that you’re stupid,” Harry said. 

He leaned down and kissed Draco as tenderly as he could, his heart pounding out of his chest. A sound escaped his throat when Draco rose to meet him, winding his hands in Harry’s hair, turning his head and opening his mouth with the same forceful desperation that Harry had been trying to hold back, kissing Harry like his life depended on it. 

Harry gave up trying to be gentle. He ran his hands down Draco’s chest, relishing the sounds that elicited, savouring the feel of Draco’s smooth skin and his warm mouth, his soft lips and his hands gripping Harry’s hair as if to prevent Harry from leaving. As if Harry would ever leave.

“I thought you called me clever,” Draco gasped against him as Harry moved off of Draco and lay down beside him.

“Whatever, Malfoy.”

“You also called me Draco.” 

Harry turned on his side to peer at Draco, taking in the flush of his cheeks and the hesitancy in his eyes. “I can keep calling you Draco, if you like.”

“Hmmm,” said Draco, something flickering brightly in his eyes. “You’re sticking around, then?”

Harry blinked. “Was planning to, yeah. Since you– you want me around, don’t you?”

Draco’s smile lit up the whole tent. “Yeah. I do.”

“And you’ll stick around? No more talks of killing you?” 

Draco huffed and buried his face in Harry’s chest, pulling him close and flicking his hand so the blanket came up to cover them both. Harry grinned; Draco hadn’t been strong enough to cast wandless magic for months. 

Harry kissed the top of Draco’s head. “I think I made it pretty clear I don’t want you to die.”

“No more talks of killing me,” Draco said into his chest. “I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> AUgust has been such a fun thing to work on together. Check out the rest of the series, if you like, all by FangirlOfLetters or tigerlilycorinne.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


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